


A Different Night

by Pistashio



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, First Kiss, First Time Blow Jobs, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Violence, Porn With Plot, Sexy Times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-10-14 19:03:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20605781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pistashio/pseuds/Pistashio
Summary: “From what my sources have rattled down to me you’ve been making a scene for yourself right through London innit mate,” He says, looking mostly ahead, cane going tap, tap, tap.Tommy looks at him sharply, and for the first time takes in the expensive suit, the glasses, the chain, the hands in pockets that pull the man’s jacket away from his body, exposing his own holster. To a God he can’t imagine Tommy prays he’s not Italian.On the streets of London Tommy and Alfie meet before they’re meant to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi Guys, wanted to write a Tommy/Alfie thing so here ya go, hope you enjoy!!!

Tommy is the one to suggest they smoke the opium, obviously. And it’s Alfie that insists there’s rouge policemen in London, rougher than the ones from Birmingham that Tommy can’t bribe or kick or glare away. Outside the sirens continue to play for every type of emergency, spinning closer, piercing through the haze of smoke and dust they stand in, falling away. Tommy wagers scared, but maybe, with the loud of London inescapable even through closed doors and windows he can imagine them distracted.   
The collar of his shirt is dotted with red and pink-brown dots, some a souvenir from storming the Italian club. Mostly they're from Arthur leaning over Tommy’s shoulder and shouting at a passing carriage, spraying blood from the new cavity of his missing tooth.

They were on their way to enjoying a night in London, noisy clubs, dark lit casinos. If they were loud enough half of London would know of the Shelby brothers by sunrise. At least that was Tommy's plan.

But then they’d spilled out of another pub onto the banks of the Thames, right into the arms of sly-tricked whores. 

He rests his hand into the side of the building, focusing on how the rocks dig into the skin of his palm. 

A girl had pulled him into the heavy smoke of the whorehouse, fingers on the buttons of his trousers before his eyes had even adjusted to the dark. Shoved off to the side she swore at him viciously, stalking off.

“A proper London welcome, hey boys,” Tommy chuckled.

Out the corner of sight, he watched John, bewitched, by a half-naked blonde woman who was pulling him by his tie into the darker depths of the building. John grinned his cheeky grin, giving no backward glances to his brothers as he disappeared behind heavy curtains.

Tommy’s luck ended with him throwing up in the alley between a pub and a club the next street over, with the lights set dimmer and the rum bitter. He wondered if Arthur was still embedded in the couch he left him on or if his brothers were back out in the London air too.

“Behave,” Had been the last thing he’d said to Arthur, docile as a lap dog eight gins down with a girl barely clothed swathed across his lap. 

She had her fingers in his hair, working, pulling through on a clump of blood that must have felt and looked like wax to someone clueless at midnight. Tommy shoved an extra pound into Arthur’s hand and left to find something else to do.

He thinks maybe he took himself outside for the fresh air, but there’s a lot of muffled shouting from inside the bricks of the pub he was just in. 

“What the fuck is a pokey blimer?”

Inside glass shatters and someone with a loud voice says something else loud and angry, for Tommy, about Tommy. A few moments ago, Tommy can remember shouting something back. In a second, he thinks, when his feet stop spinning round, when they stop facing backwards, he’ll go back in there and show them what the fuck a Peaky Blinder is.

It’s so cold outside that the older puddles of alleyway vomit have frozen over into hard desiccated chunks in the street, but part of Tommy’s forehead stays wet and burning hot. He should probably try and find John and Arthur soon.

A streak of gold grows and dies on the cobbles out on the main road and with it comes the pubs secrets of warmth and anger and blatant fucking prejudice.

Gypsy fucker.

How’d they even guess he’s gypsy?

From where he stands in a puddle outside in the dark, dressed in a tailored suit but with the tips of his shoes dipped in vomit it rubs him the wrong way. In a cold breeze he shivers, and it pours into a bristle that stands every tiny hair on his head and the back of his neck to attention. He hears a howl on the wind and opens his eyes looking directly at the navy cloud clogged sky, lips pursed throat hoarse, and laughs. 

His other hand thumbs the safety on his gun, still nestled safely in the holster that hangs from his hips. He licks his lips and suddenly they’re dry and parched, his throat feels as dry as yellow summer grass at the end of a long drought.

Then the bricks are gone, the sick only an acidic aftertaste on his tongue, and arms outstretched, gun in hand bathing in the lamplight Tommy kicks open the door.

“I’ll have a double, gentlem-” And he’s knocked back into the street by a man with a cane and shoulders almost the width of the door.

“You Thomas Shelby, mate,” Says the beard and top hat.

Tommy just spits onto the floor between them.

There’s no reaction from the man in front of him, except he moves further into the street, letting the door shut. With it comes the silence of the London streets and the knowledge that they are, apart from some hurrying pedestrians only acknowledged by the occasional follow of the eye, alone in the dark street.

Whoever the man is in front of Tommy, he is completely calm, even when Tommy, still holding his gun just slightly away from his body points it in the general vicinity of the stranger. He must be either completely sober or full of the liquid courage, because all Tommy gets is some raised eyebrows and a huff sound that could equally be a laugh or cough.

Maybe he’s here to beat Tommy up, still angry about whatever happened inside. 

“If I were you mate, and had a little common sense I’d put that piece of metal away yeah,” The big man indicates at Tommy’s gun hand with his cane then holds his hands up, palms to Tommy, empty.

After a moment of glaring and thinking, blinking and seeing two of the man merge into one, Tommy nods and obliges, keeping his hand on the holster. 

“Now, how about you come away with me yeah mate, you’ve really managed to twist the knickers of the boys in there,” The man jerks his head back in the direction of the pub he’s blocking the door of.

Men are still shouting something angry inside, but Tommy can’t remember, if he beat someone up, something worse or something better. Blood tickles at the corner of his eye.  
Light and noise explode behind the big man as someone tries to open the door. Someone says ‘Alfie’ or ‘oh fuck’, he’s not sure but with a harsh crack of his hand the man in front of the door slams it closed. For the first time Tommy thinks maybe he’s here to stop him from being beaten up rather than to get in the first shots.

Inside the voices get quieter.  
Without looking back the man who might be Alfie slowly begins walking away from the pub, still talking. Tommy has to do a small jog kick movement to catch up.

“From what my sources have rattled down to me you’ve been making a scene for yourself right through London innit mate,” He says, looking mostly ahead, cane going tap, tap, tap. 

Tommy looks at him sharply, and for the first time takes in the expensive suit, the glasses, the chain, the hands in pockets that pull the man’s jacket away from his body, exposing his own holster. To a God he can’t imagine Tommy prays he’s not Italian. 

The gangster he walks side by side with chuckles lowly, leans towards Tommy, intimidating or arrogant he can’t decide. 

He leans his head down, speaks in a low voice. “Been messing with those Italian fuckers haven’t you mate,”

Tommy lights a cigarette.

No one’s walked by them in a while now, and the noise from the pubs they pass doesn’t quite reach them anymore. They turn a corner and Tommy can’t resist glancing back once, to get his bearings, to check they’re not being followed, to see two or three shapes standing still outside the pub, looking their way.

There’s a drip-tapping noise around them and only now does Tommy notice the slight drizzle in the air.

The man still walking forward brings his hand, not-so-gently down onto Tommy’s shoulder, squeezing out a sham play of affection until he winces.

“Not so safe for you out on the streets right now,”

“Yeah?”   
Tommy already doesn’t like him. Doesn’t like how much he speaks, doesn’t like the hand on his shoulder, doesn’t like that he’s actually following him further into fuck-knows-where. 

“Yeah, I’d say so, ‘specially without that bulldog brother by your side.” 

They stop walking, just outside of the light cast by the streetlamps. His beard is almost close enough to tickle as he looks both ways down the street tutting at nothing, right in Tommy’s face. So dramatic, so over the top and Tommy can’t stand it anymore, the arrogance, the righteous bragging as if he’s better than Tommy. His forehead aches. Can’t stand that he’s angry and tired and can’t tell which one will win. The nagging sense he knows the gangster in front of him.

“Fuck are you,” Tommy’s words are more slurred than he wanted them to sound. 

“I’m Alfie Solomons, London’s best baker.”

Tommy snorts. Of course, this infuriating man would be the head of the Jewish gang he was meant to meet tomorrow.

Alfie Solomons bristles, straightening his shoulders till he’s taller than Tommy can remember, walking again almost too fast for Tommy to keep up.

“I wouldn’t be so fucking disparaging if I were you mate, my business is fucking international, you’re the little Brummy fish in the big fucking pond.” 

Mr Solomons infamous rage boils into the air, an imaginary mist from the pointed finger he jabs into nothing. But he hasn’t shot Tommy yet or led him into an alley to have him beaten half to death, so maybe it will all go right. He does carry on talking though.

“And, so far, Mr Tommy Shelby, I have to say I’m a little disappointed by your improfessional behaviours you’ve been displaying in my wee Portland Arms earlier. Heard you were the real deal,”

“Well, I’m sure tomorrow will help shine a better light on the Shelby Company Limited.” Tommy taps ash and leaves it behind them as they continue walking, finally relaxed by the nicotine and knowing the name of the man next to him.

They keep walking for another few minutes, through the smog and rain and smoke of London. The air helps his head and between buildings he thinks he can see the Thames.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfie's pov

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the warnings this chapter innit ;)

It doesn’t take much persuasion to get Tommy to follow him. In fact, the man matches his every step, even when to test him or to tease him, Alfie takes a sudden turn down a dark alleyway. Tommy matches him not a step out of line. Not a bead of fear on his face, but then again, he does have a gun. 

“Alright,” Is all Tommy says when Alfie stops outside the big barn doors of the bakery.

“Welcome, Thomas Shelby, to the finest bakery in Camden lock,” Alfie says it with a grin, arms outstretched, turning in a slow spin to face his new friend.   
To Tommy who just says, “Alright,” a new cigarette burning in his mouth.

It’s a bit disappointing, considering Alfie can feel the blood he’s poured into the business calling back to him, squeezed between the bricks and mopped into the floor, his and numerous, numerous others. Tommy’s would probably, hopefully, join the lock eventually. 

Though to be fair to the man with the soft, serious face, he’d probably bled just as much into the streets of Birmingham. And with the gash on his forehead Alfie could almost see him thinking, so he’d leave the compliments for later, for the rum. 

Alfie dismisses the men on duty and they walk through the distillery alone, two pairs of footsteps making one sound on concrete that smells like bleach. There’s not much light inside apart from Tommy’s cigarette and the casting glow of carefully hung gas lamps, but all the cast light reflects off the even more carefully stored bottles on the other side of the room. Its quite pretty actually, but when Alfie glances over at Tommy he just seems to be staring straight ahead.

The table for their meeting tomorrow is already laid out, two bottles from their best batch and two glasses polished and stacked. When he’d set it up Alfie imagined they’d be standing, with bodyguards and workers and smoke and noise. Without the atmosphere though, its all a bit bare. Grabbing the bottles, he motions Tommy forward again towards his office, where they can properly relax.

“What would you like, brown or white?” Alfie asks as he opens both bottles.

“I’ll try the brown,” Tommy says, actually smiling. 

Alfie feels a weird warmth for that small smile. He’s actually quite distracted by the man in front of him that he spills some of the rum as he pours it. When he passes the glass Tommy’s fingers graze his, cold, electric. 

Alfie has to clear his throat.  
“What do you think?”

“Not bad,” Tommy tips his glass and rocks his head. 

It’s the most gratification he’ll get, and while Alfie can’t deny the sleekness of his movements and the feelings they stir, he can’t help but be a bit annoyed with the aloofness ‘not bad’.  
“Is that all?” 

“Mr Solomons,” He says it as if he’s tasting it. “Mr Solomons, I think we help eachother,” Tommy talks slow, rolls the words around his mouth the way he tasted the rum and it goes straight to Alfie’s groin. 

“There is money to be made tonight.” Tommy says, unaware, downing the rest of his glass, “And contracts to be drawn up and signed,”  
He looks around the room, then reaches over and pours himself a double of the white rum.

“Where’s your typewriter,” Tommy says, drinking again, exposing the ghost white of his long neck.

“Over there,” Alfie motions to the machine in the corner of the room, not expecting Tommy to immediately drag a chair over his wooden floor with an unearthly screech. 

“Woah, steady on you fucking jackrabbit, I think the contracts can wait till tomorrow. You my friend are drunk as a skunk, and I don’t want you back here in the morning pistols blazing because you’ve signed away half yer business in the eagerness of the night.” Alfie thinks that’s the right decision, seeing that the bloke in front of him backstabbed Kimber over a petty scrap. 

Fumbling with the key to his draw, the one with the gun in Alfie takes in the small man in front of him. The Shelby looks fairly normal, bit smaller than the rumours. Bit skinnier and a bit prettier than Alfie had expected. There would be no use in shooting him dead tonight. His fingers and head buzz with the rum and he actually chuckles.

The head of the notorious Birmingham Blinders gang looks back at him with eyes like a fox. He stares straight into Alfie’s soul. It’s the first time he’s properly looked him in the eyes, and it makes Alfie hot and bothered and uncomfortable. Tommy stares past the point of lusty, he stands in the corner and the mood nose-dives right into unbearably tense.  
He’s being assessed on a completely new level by a man the colour of winter roses. He can feel Tommy’s eyes burning though his suit, looking at his torso with an unimaginable look buried in his skin. As equally as he could be imagining his muscles, his chest, the feel of muscle on muscle, Alfie could imagine his heart being dissected discarded, his fucking soul splayed out and judged to death by the gypsy in front of him. 

He wants to choke his cock down Tommy’s throat and list each sin he would atone for.  
A man who might not actually be gay, but a man who left a whorehouse with a wad of banknotes and a dry cock. 

“Rum’s for fun and fucking. Not paperwork,” Alfie can’t say it slow, not quite managing to look him in the eye.

Instead he pours himself another finger of the dark rum and holds his hand out for Shelby’s glass.

Tommy doesn’t say anything at first. Neither does he laugh. But the glass is placed in Alfie’s hand, which he refills to the sound of a chair scraping and Tommy settling into the seat across the desk. When he looks up Tommy’s drinking him in as he sips his rum.

“Is there opium in London?” Tommy says, peaking out from under his grey cap.

“Fuck off,” Alfie snarls. He’s more upset than he would like to admit, both with the disappointment with the lack of Tommy’s interest and the idea that he’s getting into business with a fucking junkie. 

“That shit’s a big fucking no-no mate,” Alfie points a finger. “You touch that shit and this-”  
He gestures all around his office, vaguely in the direction of the rum and himself. “Is over with. Completely off-limits mate.”

He keeps talking, his voice rising. His hand goes back to the desk draw, Tommy’s eyes follow.  
“And if it’s too late and you want me to get into business with a junkie that’s gonna get me caught or shot or worse then take yourself back right through that door find your fucking mental brother and fuck off back to Birmingham because they will eat you alive down here,”

He can hear his voice echoing back to him through the deep walls of the distillery. He’s as hot as a fired gun, his echoes sound like screams.

Tommy doesn’t react. Maybe it was a test, maybe he’s mad, or pleased, or going to pull out his pistol first and shoot him right in his leather backed seat.  
“They will eat you fucking alive down here mate,” Alfie says it, slowly, quieter with a calm he doesn’t quite feel yet. 

Tommy doesn’t confirm or deny anything, but Alfie supposes he wouldn’t really believe him whatever he said. Instead he takes off his cap, placing it on the table so the razor blades glint dully in the lamplight. 

The buzzcut on the side of his head is growing back in, and there’s a soft halo of downy dark hair on Tommy’s head. He lights another cigarette, settles it into his mouth and places his hands, palm up on the table. Surrender.  
“I see the inner desires of people. Sometimes it’s not that fun.” 

Sirens spin outside like autumn leaves on the wind. Alfie stands up, so does Tommy. They’re about the same height, but Tommy’s still looking at him up through his lashes. 

“It’s a gift from my mother’s side, in my gypsy blood.” Tommy says in a tone that could be taunting or mocking, standing in place.

Alife walks round the desk, standing in front of Tommy till he backs into the table and they’re chest to chest, nose to nose. One last time he tries to understand the look in Tommy’s eyes. There’s a flicker of something, maybe curiosity, maybe fear but it doesn’t matter because he kisses him. 

His lips are cold, but they move with his. When Alife presses harder they open and let him in. Alfie grabs firmly at his waist pulling Tommy against him, he can feel something hard against his leg and encouraged he reaches round and kneads Tommy’s ass.

He sucks on Tommy’s bottom lip, flushing it with colour. Heat rises in Tommy’s cheeks, pale pink and ivory. Putting a finger under Tommy’s chin, he tips his face skyward, exposing his long neck that Alfie can’t resist trailing kisses down. When he gets to the pulse point, he starts sucking. He feels a moan escape Tommy’s mouth and sucks harder till he feels a thump on his arm. Leaning back, he admires the deep red bruise, mottling and darkening under Tommy’s skin and can’t keep from reaching forward and licking it softly.

There’s a hand in Alfie’s hair, pulling Alfie into another kiss, harder this time. Tommy makes a noise into Alfie’s mouth, a mix between a squeak and a moan, and it takes all of Alfie’s will power to not turn him round and fuck him into his desk right there. Instead he bites Tommy’s lip, hard and opens his eyes to see Tommy staring straight back at him. It sets Alfie’s cock on fire.

“On your knees,” Alfie growls. 

Pulling Tommy forward by his tie, Alfie kisses him once more exploring his mouth till he feels Tommy’s arm snake under his jacket, for affection, or to steady himself. His hand stays securely on Alfie’s lower back, gentlemanly in comparison to the rough way Alfie handles the smaller man and it only makes Alife want him more.  
Alfie relishes in it for a few moments, grabbing Tommy’s ass again before pulling away. “Okay,”

They’re both panting. Through the curtains a thin grey light hinting at morning hits the table. 

“Darling, I’m not going to ask again.” Tommy’s eyes are dark, his lips flushed red and slightly agape.  
“On your knees,” Alfie pushes at the slighter man’s shoulders, not rough, but with enough force for Tommy to know he’s serious.

Tommy goes down slowly, one knee at a time. Resting one hand on Alfie’s thigh, he pulls the fabric into as much of a bunch as can be pulled together, while the other fumbles at the button of his trousers.

When, after what feels like forever, Tommy finally slips Alfie’s cock from his underwear, he just stares at it for a moment. Then tentatively, looking up at Alfie with doe eyes, takes him in his callused hand. 

The first few strokes are experimental. Tommy holds him too soft, then to hard, tugging at the skin near the head as if trying to get it to go over and Alfie thinks that if this is Tommy’s first time with another man’s cock, as it so most certainly now seems to be, then maybe he’s never seen a circumcised one either.

Maybe, if it was somebody else, Alfie would laugh at this point, say something scathing and take his business elsewhere, but Alfie is mesmerised watching a man who’s killed countless clumsily grope at his cock. He also doesn’t trust the Tommy Shelby not to bite his cock off and throw it away like an orange pip if offended, but that uncertainty only adds to the gangster’s charm. Instead of saying something he might regret, Alfie threads a hand into the mess of hair on Tommy’s head and pulls him onto his cock.

The head of Alfie’s cock bumps against Tommy’s lips in a parody of a kiss and Alfie feels Tommy’s hand, still holding his cock like a feather, tighten. Then tentatively, Tommy licks at the head of his cock.

Tommy runs his tongue over the head of Alfie’s cock a couple times, making him moan. Tommy pulls his hand gently up and down Alfie’s shaft, slowly circling round the tip with his tongue, flicking at the sensitive hole, sending a wave of nauseating heat deep into the pit of Alfie’s stomach. 

The look of concentration, the slight frown on Tommy’s face is almost enough to make Alfie go insane. Tommy’s moving too slowly, sucking cock like someone who has to think about it, and its making Alfie’s cock so sensitive that it almost hurts. He pushes harder against Tommy and without resistance he takes him in.

Tommy bobs his head out of time with his hand that’s still moving uncertainly up and down Alfie’s cock. It should be off-putting, but Tommy’s mouth is hot and wet and tight and with a little tug in his hair Alfie aligns the two movements. 

“Fuck,” Alfie breathes out under his breath, but Tommy must hear because he hums around Alfie’s cock.

It makes Alfie’s already weak knees feel like jelly. Tommy’s tongue swirls endlessly around Alfie’s cock, relentless and he’s on the edge. His mind is blank, nerves on fire and he has to lean over Tommy to steady himself with a hand on the desk, pushing himself deeper into Tommy’s mouth till he feels a hand pawing at his trousers.

Alfie moans as Tommy pulls back, leaving his shaft slick and cold. The ocean roars through his ears, blood flows like fresh lava through his body, burning hot. He’s been so hard for so long by this point that he doesn’t care one bit for being teased, can’t think can barely move more than the fitful, explosive thrusts that control him uncontrollably. He’s on the edge, thinks there’s nothing more to it than to just shove his cock as far down Tommy’s throat as it will go when the devil hollows his cheeks, sucking at the head of his cock.  
White sparks frame Alfie’s vision and with a shout he grabs Tommy harder by the hair, roughly fucking his face in jerky movements till with one last thrust he comes down Tommy’s chocking throat. 

Tommy’s thumping at his leg, moaning an ecstasy around Alfie’s twitching cock, and when he can’t take the stimulation for a second longer, he lets his legs buckle beneath him. Resting his forehead against Tommy’s he laughs breathily trying to catch up to his racing lungs. Beneath him he feels Tommy wipe the spit from around his mouth.  
“Oh, Tommy-boy! Oh, fuck me,” Alfie laughs out lowly, then he leans back and bellows.

Leaning forward he grabs Tommy by both sides of his face and kisses him smack on the lips. “That mate, was a magical thing that just happened right there,”  
Tommy just looks at him with wide eyes. He’s panting too, his chest rising and falling under his jacket and lopsided tie. Alfie doesn’t mention it but there’s a spot of come on his collar. Tommy’s lips work, a deep, bruised blushing crimson but Alfie can’t wait to hear what he has to say. He kisses him again, slower this time and deeper, relishing the taste of himself on the other man’s tongue. 

Alfie brings a hand up to gently cradle Tommy’s face, gently stroking his thumb against his flushed cheeks.   
“Now darlin, why don’t, why don’t, you let me return the favour.” Alfie says, punctuating each word with another kiss.

Reaching a hand for Tommy’s trousers, for his cock that’s still hard, Alfie imagines making the other man moan, how hot Tommy will look above him, gripping the desk to stay standing, hips bucking into his mouth.

But when he touches it, Tommy flinches as if he’s been hit and hastily, with the grace of a new-born foal fumbles to his feet.

Above him, uncertain, Tommy pulls his hair roughly into a semblance of place and coughs, clears his throat, looking round the room.

“I, erm, I have to go now,” Tommy says with a hoarser voice than normal.

“I promise mate, you think you did a good job, I’ve had more practice than those girls down the Thames.” Alfie laughs, standing up and buttoning his trousers. “Darlin, I’ll fuck you till you babble nonsense into the table,”

Tommy laughs at that, even though he’s not smiling. But he hasn’t left yet, or shot him. He just won’t let Alfie suck him off.

Tommy mutters something in gypsy to the ceiling then grabs his cap from the desk.

“Right. Fuck. You can’t, fuck! … Tell someone and the deals off, tell someone and I’ll cut you’re fucking eyes out.” He pulls his cap down too far, covering his eyes.

Alfie steps forward and Tommy steps back. Maybe he shouldn’t have immediately tried to fuck his newest-not-yet-business partner.

“Write it in the fucking contract darlin,” Alfie says annoyed, trying to hide that he’s little bit hurt.

Tommy doesn’t say anything, just looks back at him with than unreadable stare. Outside, somewhere in the factory there’s the sound of metal scraping against concrete, and with a nod Tommy takes it as his que to leave without a backwards glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed, sorry there was a bit of a wait, considering the first chapter was mostly just some jaded description. Think I might do a bit more of these two, let me know if it'd be appreciated :D. Have a good life till next read! x


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long and turned out kinda pointless. I kept meaning to work on this but I've got too caught up on it so I'm just going to post it and move on to the next bit, which will hopefully be a lot longer and more interesting. Either way, hope you enjoy a bit of Tommy and his brothers

The morning is thick with smog and soot, cold and dirty as the puddles Tommy walks between on his way back to the hotel. Nearby on a road half-shrouded by the grey smog cars rumble, beep and blare past, Tommy watches and sees nothing until with a screech and a blaring horn a car mounts the pavement just a few feet in front, the droplets of puddle, disrupted by the car, land in fragments on his shoes.

There’s more cars in London, Tommy thinks as he passes the driver cursing and hoping that he’s subtle taking his hand off his holster. He doesn’t think about how his heart jumped when he thought the bearded man in the car was Alfie.

Behind the tall buildings, somewhere in the sky the sun burns a hole through the fog, but the warmth of the day hasn’t reached him yet. His fingers are cold. 

Tommy licks his lips and tries not to think of why they’re cracked and sore. There’s still hope that his brothers won’t be awake, and hope that they’ll care more about boasting about their own escapades than wondering about what he was doing. 

At least his trousers aren’t feeling as tight anymore, Tommy thinks bemused, because really, not only did he get down on his knees for a potential new business partner and not even come, but he went down for a man. 

Alfie, with shoulders to block a doorway and the temper of a honey badger. He could have killed Tommy at any time, maybe still might. Alfie had hands like a bear, with fingers as thick as rope that could have knocked him dead with one punch, or chocked him as they fucked. Shivers run up and down Tommy’ back, nothing to do with the cold.

Or maybe he’ll just go to the Italians and the press and every racetrack and name Tommy a queer. 

A doorman opens the door the second Tommy’s shoes hit the pavement three paces away, the man nods and calls him ‘Sir’ as Tommy passes. Through the window the cold morning sunlight burns through the grey smog as Tommy takes the hotel stairs two at a time. Only maids pass Tommy, and with a hope that makes him young he opens the door   
quietly-

“Morning Tom.” Arthur says springing up from the unmade bed.

He’s already dressed, or still dressed from the night before, given the creases that make the left side of his jacket hang slightly higher than the right, and loud enough to make Tommy think he might still be drunk. 

“Alright boys,” Tommy nods then coughs, embarrassed at how hoarse his voice sounds.

“Where’d you go last night, you missed out on all the fun.” John says, coming out of the bathroom, hair a haphazard wet mess.

From his pocket Tommy pulls and lights a cigarette, watching John jump through the room, throwing his towel at Arthur, grabbing his socks off the floor.

“Cor you should’a seen what that little blonde thing could do swear she folded herself in half and put her head near her own twat.” John says, jumping up and grabbing the smoke from Tommy.

Arthur laughs first, bellows loud enough that someone in the room across thumps and shouts through the wall. Tom can’t help but chuckle, it eases the tension in his stomach to be around them like this, when they’re alone and act almost as they did before the war.

“There are many wonders in this world, young Johnny.” Tommy pulls another two smokes from his pocket and passes one to Arthur, lighting his own. 

“You sure she didn’t slip something a bit heavy into your drink John?” Arthur says still laughing, definitely still drunk.

None too gently Arthur bumps into Johns side, clapping a hand on his brothers’ shoulder. It reminds Tommy of the man he doesn’t want to think about.

“If she did, I want that every night. I couldn’t stand for a good fucking hour, she got so mad at me she had to go grab a couple of her mates to shove me out.” John says it proudly.

“Is that so?” Tommy can imagine it, can remember the way John was with girls in France.

Arthur laughs, “And we thought the Brummy girls had attitude, bleeding hell- they’re a different breed down here.”

“They’re like.. they’re like fucking donkeys with their fucking attitude,” John nods.

Tommy leans back against the wall, looking at his brothers, letting the cold seep from his bones. They all and Ada, used to drive poor Polly mad, with all their talking and shouting and tumbling arguments.

“Donkeys?” Tommy says, eyebrows raising. 

“He’s right Tom they’ll kick at anything.” Arthur says, almost solemnly.

“Ay Thomas, you can get off your high-fucking horse seems like you had a bit of fun last night yourself.” John points at Tommy’s neck.

“Something like that.” Oh god, Tommy thinks, looking at the floor, the blush creeping up his neck.

“Oh I understand,” Arthur says slowly, wagging a finger, “Thought you’d left to explore or summit, but I get it, only the premium fucking cuts of beef for our King, innit.” Arthur bellows again, voice rising to a shout. “The King don’t ride donkeys!”

Another knock through the yellow flowers on the wall they all ignore. 

John tuts, flicking at Tommy’s tie. “Well the fucking king has shit on his tie. Thought you said we had to make a good impression at this meeting.”

Without thinking Tommy rips the tie off, throwing it on the bed. Maybe, given that his brothers don’t know the sun for the sky normally, they’ll think the obvious, that its his come. Unless they’ve been struck with a sudden bout of thinking. 

Still, the smell of smoking engines crawls in the open window, Tommy feels nauseous. Its hunger, it’s a hangover, it’s the smog, he tells himself. Tommy thinks of the meeting, of bringing his brothers to see Alfie, his arrogant, booming voice and what it might say.

“Once I have a bath, and find a new tie, we’ll plan our meeting with Solomons,”

**Author's Note:**

> Stay tuned, things really ;D *heat up* in the next chapter and tell me what ya think!! x


End file.
